Night of the Black Bastards (An Action-Packed Thriller)

by Casey Christie

  Night held his fiancé safely in his arms. Her head resting on his chest. After a few quite moments Night opened his mouth to say goodbye but Lisa put her index finger to his lips and stopped him from saying farewell. She looked up into his loving eyes and whispered softly:

  “No goodbyes, not today Michael Night. You will do this day what you need to do, what you must do and then you will return to me. I love love, kindness and tenderness and I abhor violence but sometimes it’s necessary. And now, violence is necessary. Go get him Michael, go get the devil and kill the bastard!”

  Lumina. Drive. Highway. 235Kph. OR Tambo Johannesburg International Airport. Park. Leave weapons in the secured safe in Night’s vehicle in the secure underground parking lot used by the airport police. Arrive Terminal A. Gate 09. 56 minutes later.

  Tony greeted the Black Bastards. “Gentlemen, follow me please.”

  Walk out of the airport. “Gentlemen, please employ your training as police officers and let me know if at any time you think we are being followed” the General’s bodyguard said dispassionately.

  Into parking level three. Out of parking level three. All clear. Elevator to parking level five. Into an unmarked grey Nissan sedan. All clear.

  “Shaka sit up with me in the front. You are too big to bend down and get out of sight. You two, get in the back and get out of sight.” Drive. One hour and thirty minutes later arrive at destination. All clear. Lanseria airport.

  Lanseria airport. Drive onto runway. Debus in front of transport, a fixed wing Cessna Grand Caravan.

  “Gentlemen for this part of the journey no talking. No communication whatsoever. Your cellphones please” said a man who Sergeant Night recognised, who stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the plane’s entrance. One by one they handed over their mobile phones and were searched to ensure they didn’t have a second phone on their body or anything else that was deemed not permitted. They slowly walked up into the staircase and into the aircraft.

  “Gentlemen. I am your pilot. You will find some food and water for you in your seat. Eat well, and conserve the water, it will be your last opportunity to eat before zero hour. Enjoy your flight” said the man with an adventurous smile.

  The Black Bastards walked to the back of the plane and found seats. They sat down. Night noted the men as he passed them on either side of the plane. Eight in total. They looked like veteran fighters Mike thought to himself. Hard fuckers! Good men to get into a gunfight with! Night looked down at his skin which rippled with goosebumps of exhilaration and anticipation. To battle.

  Much to the pleasure of Shaka, the police officers found a 2kg plastic container of pasta prepared for consumption and six litres of water for hydration.

  “Thank God, I’m starving” said Shaka.

  Night shook his head at his friend’s remark and heard Stanislov laugh. He noticed Tony walk to the front of the plane and speak to a man seated next to the pilot. It was General Arosi. The General whispered into his bodyguard’s ear and Tony made his way to the back of the plane and sat near Night.

  “The General says welcome aboard. He says he is glad Lisa is okay and he says congratulations.”

  The bodyguard fell back into his chair.

  “Oh and he says that he hopes your dog pulls through.”

  “It’s not a dog Tony“ said Shaka between mouthfuls of spaghetti. “He’s a Lion, a Zulu one!”

  Some minutes later and the Cessna carrying the elite South African warriors took off. The pilot was no ordinary aviator and Night became aware of this fact the moment the aircraft left the ground. The captain took off, turned sharply, ascended further and then levelled out the vehicle quickly. It wasn’t as if the pilot was crude in his technique or harsh in his execution of making the plane go. Rather Night realised, this pilot was a combat flier and every manoeuvre he made was exacting and efficient. Fast and economical on exposure to any enemy radar or craft. The flying altitude was low and it was clear that in flight passenger comfort was a secondary consideration. There would be no walking around or going to the lavatory unnecessarily. And there would be no idle chit chat or superfluous conversation with fellow contractors. This suited Night perfectly as he reviled superficial tête-à-tête.

  The atmosphere created on the plane was purposefully generated by General Arosi. As a fine and accomplished commander he demanded discipline and focus from his men. He had instructed the captain, who privately contracted for the General regularly and was in fact a combat pilot from the South African Police Force Special Air Wing, to fly the plane as if they were over unfriendly territory in a hostile environment. The General knew this would accomplish two things: one it would create a solemn atmosphere on board and two it would make the aircraft difficult to track via radar. The General’s natural good manners made him want to get up and greet his men and in particular his friend Night as they had entered the plane but experience taught him that now was not the time for friendship. Rather discipline and professional conduct were called for and in fact necessitated. The General also realised that the men he had recruited for this daring operation would have expected nothing less from their OC (Operational Commander).

  There was no loud music. There was no alcohol. No whores, no jokes and no confetti or hype. The mission of the thirteen was to destroy their enemy and reclaim a stolen fortune, pilfered from a subjugated people. General Arosi found the allure of the commission to be made from the recovery of the Gadhafi gold inviting and it was an important motivator in carrying out the perilous indenture but it was not the only stimulus. Arosi saw the plight of the Libyan people under the dictatorship of the cruel Colonel similar to that of the black population under the oppression of apartheid and felt that returning the plundered gold would be a fitting end to the initial overthrow of the tyrant and his family.

  He, after so many years, was also looking forward to bringing an end to the life and cruelty of Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the ZNA. General Arosi looked at his chosen twelve fighters on the monitor of the inbuilt CCTV system fitted in the plane’s cockpit and considered his men. Just as the thought formed in his mind, the combat pilot said the words the General was thinking.

  “You have gathered a deadly dozen General. Perhaps even the most deadly fighting unit ever assembled on the continent.”

  The General said nothing but gazed at his flying operative.

  “Whoever your enemy is General, on this occasion, I may actually feel sorry for them!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Night looked down at his black Casio G-Shock wrist watch. It was just on four hours after they had taken off from Lanseria airport. The pilot had circled the landing strip once already, pre landing recon, and was lining up for the final approach to what looked like a temporary airstrip set up somewhere in the Karoo desert. Four hours – was this even the Karoo? Night looked out of his window and could see nothing but desert for miles in this direction. He looked out of the opposite window and still saw only sand. The runway had been crudely fashioned with strips of log and tree branches on either side. The Cessna Grand Caravan’s rugged airframe construction, immense, steel tube landing gear and bulky rough field tires were suited to the challenging terrain. As they descended men were visible on the runway itself with brooms, apparently brushing away any debris and large stones, rocks and any other obstacles out of the touchdown path of the incoming plane. In typical African style it was being done at the very last minute. T.I.A.

  Night laughed to himself and thought: “We may not even make the landing.”

  To Night’s utter astonishment, five minutes later the plane was safely on the ground, taxiing towards the edge of the “airstrip” where he saw four old battered and bruised 4x4 soft skinned Toyota Land Cruisers parked. The men he had seen earlier preparing the runway were now waiting at the vehicles.

  Minutes later and all the men had disembarked from the transport plane and were huddled in a semi-circle around General Amos Arosi.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed the
journey and inflight meal. A big thanks to our fine pilot” said the General and paused, looking at the aviator who now sat on the stairs of his aircraft while eating an apple, cutting slices off with his fighting blade. The man, with his rugged surfer boy good looks and burnt blond hair, looked up, lowered his Ray Ban shades and gave a cocky wink and grinned.

  “It’s what I do General!”

  The twelve mercenaries all looked at the pilot in appreciation of his obvious winged skill and nodded in recognition.

  “Now. Here we are. Somewhere in a desert. That’s all. From here on out we use call signs and only call signs, unless of course you already know each other and it’s non-operational chat. In any tactical situation, gentlemen, whether it be operational planning and preparation or actual indenture engagement we will refer to ourselves and each other through our calls signs only. Understood! Good, now we will climb in the vehicles here. Four men in each, I will be in the lead vehicle as a fifth. From here we will travel to our FOB (Forward Operating Base). There we will gear up and commence our operational planning. The brief will be short as time is of the essence. This operation has been planned to be swift and violent. When we arrive you will have 30 Mikes to yourself. There is a small pool of water near our FOB, coming down from a flowing mountain stream. I suggest you cool off and freshen up in it. And then we strike. A very brief introduction, and background validation, of your comrades. First, we have four members from the South African Police Special Task Force, gentlemen please make yourselves known.”

  Four men who stood in an obvious group nodded their identification. Night had already pinged them as being the STF men because of their obvious physical strength and fitness. They looked like modern day Spartans, Night thought to himself. One was a black man, the other of mixed race and the remaining two were white.

  “We have four members of a private security company, Mike Romeo. All are former members of the South African Army Special Forces.”

  Night had also identified the Army SF members. Two of the men were black, one white and one of mixed race. They were leaner, non-combatants would call them skinny, and built more for stamina, marching long distances and jungle warfare. And although to the civilian eye they looked less imposing they were in fact probably a lot more sinister and perhaps even more dangerous than the police members, not necessarily in combat capability but more so in predictability. Night had experienced this before when he was an army commando. Soldiers are trained to use deadly violence solely to take lives and will use excessive force whenever possible, quite rightly as a soldier, as the goal is to always utterly dominate the enemy. And to army personnel the deaths of the general population during combat could always be referred to as collateral damage, the price of war.

  Police officers however are trained in deadly combat to save lives and only ever use the necessary force, the least amount of force required against criminal suspects – the police officers’ enemy. When Night had first transitioned from army to police it took him a while to soften to this truth. But it suited him better. He preferred saving lives and protecting life. Today though they would all work as one element. One fighting force. And their goal was a hell of a lot more military than police. Their goal was to annihilate their enemy. Without quarter.

  “And we have some police patrolmen with us, known infamously throughout Johannesburg as unforgiving, but fair, bastards. All are South African Police Force with various military backgrounds including South African Army Commando and Russian Spetsnaz. The giant you see before you is Zulu. And that I am sure he will agree is enough of a fighting background.” Shaka puffed out his already massive chest in agreement with the General’s validation of worth.

  “Finally, we have Tango Tango, my personal bodyguard and perhaps the most deadly protector I know. His background lies so deep in the confidential that I can say no more. Except this, only yesterday he saved me from an attempt on my life by British mercenaries and I vouch for him. Okay. Introductions done, I want the police officers who are all trained in advanced driving to… you guessed it. Drive.”

  The General signalled to one of the men, obviously a desert nomad, who wore a Shemagh (Desert Scarf). The man approached and dropped three keys into the General’s outstretched hand. Night noted the men and saw they each had an AK draped under their desert wear. They were the airstrip guards.

  “Thank you. Okay. Tango Tango, you take the lead vehicle with myself, Mike November and November Sierra.”

  Tony Tshabalala stepped forward and accepted the car keys.

  “Delta Sierra you take the follow vehicle with the Army SF boys.”

  Daniel Shaka stepped forward and took hold of his keys. At this point one of the Army SF operators said: “Will he even be able to fit in the bloody damn vehicle. What with all that steroid induced muscle of his.”

  It is a well-known truth that in the contracting world soldiers often laugh at their security counterparts who are well muscled as they realise this will do nothing for them in a setting of war. In fact it will actually work against them in most conflict zones, especially in Africa, where having to walk for hundreds of kilometres is common.

  “Not steroids my friend. Only chicken!”

  The giant Zulu grinned widely and put his powerful arm around the lanky ex-soldier pulling him along with some force.

  “Come brother, let’s introduce ourselves and talk about manners!”

  The rest of the former Army SF soldiers saw this and immediately warmed to the massive police constable. Their leader, the older white man with a wizened face, remarked: “I think we will get along just fine. And don’t mind the bomb maker. His talent lies in explosives, not making friends.”

  Finally the General threw the last set of keys to the Commander of the Special Task Force four, call sign Kilo.

  “You decide who drives. You will be in the follow vehicle. And keep up, we move with haste as time is short. Our destination is approximately twenty Kilo Mikes out. Let’s Move!”

  Night thought about the motley crew - It truly was a rainbow nation of an extremely deadly fighting force! Even our mercenaries are now integrated. The way it should be!

  Some time later and the convoy of vehicles was speeding along the desert surface. Tony had initially brought the fleet up to a speed of 170kph but had to reduce haste due to small stones and dirt being flung onto the following vehicles, giving the second 4x4 a cracked windscreen. Tony had to slow again and finally found the ideal cruising speed to be 125kph on the rough surface. The convoy moved as one. The follow vehicles showed extreme skill in being able to keep up so closely. The three vehicles were never more than a metre apart from one another. It was a fine display of convoy driving.

  Uninterrupted and without misfortune the armed force arrived at their destination, mapped out by a global positioning system. The private legionnaires arrived at their destination in under ten minutes. The pace was blistering and the look of concentration on the drivers’ faces was apparent when the men exited their vehicles.

  The FOB was made up of no more than one large, old and tattered white tent, surrounded by thorn bushes and deceptive camouflage.

  The private force entered the big tent to find two tables, one with gear and equipment, the other with Russian made AK 47s, magazines and ammunition.

  “All right gents. Take thirty, private time. Enjoy the water. Then report back here to receive your kit and weapons” said General Arosi.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Night relished the feeling of the cold water against his naked skin in contrast to the aggressive African desert sun that was now lowering, like a ball of flame melting into the earth, for another day. The sun beat against his skin for a few more moments. He dived as deep as he could into the pool of water that had formed at the base of a mountain and broke the surface once more. The rest of the men had opted to stay at the FOB and check weapons and equipment. Night though, instinctively knew to take the opportunity to freshen up. It had been a long day for him, full of raw emotion, at on
e point he was convinced his fiancée had been murdered by the man he now steeled himself to kill. He savoured his time alone, so he could clear his thoughts, focus and ready himself for battle.

  So far, Night thought to himself, the General had conducted a near flawless operation, following all the SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures) for launching a clandestine mission. Adequate anti-surveillance measures were carried out prior to all the men being aboard the transport aircraft. Importantly nobody aboard the plane except the General and the pilot knew their exact destination and final landing location. Not one person was allowed to keep their mobile phone with them. None of the operators knew the exact location of where the FOB was or even where the area of operation would be. And perhaps most significantly the golden rule was observed – the men and the weapons were brought together at the last possible moment, only hours, if not minutes before incursion. And this in spite of the fact that the operation was technically legal and carried out as private security operators under contract from a recognised authority to recover stolen property.

  Night finished his desert dip and returned to base some 20 minutes later, his mind clear and ready to engage uSathane and his minions. He found that Shaka was talking to the four members of the Special Task Force. Shaka called him over to join them.

  “This is Michael Night, he is my brother” said Constable Shaka. “Mike this is Kalahari,” and introduced him to the highest ranking member of the STF men, a Warrant Officer.

  “Yes I know who you are Sergeant Night. They call you and your men the Black Bastards. Yes we have heard many stories about you. And if memory serves me correctly we have actually met before, on duty” said Kalahari.

  “That’s right Warrant. In Sandton, there was a hostage situation about a year ago. We held the perimeter and waited for you boys to arrive via chopper. You went in and killed the hostage takers. I must say Warrant I have never seen a squad of operators move with such incredible, violent, speed. I was impressed.”